The Burn (5 page)

In fact he
was
slightly tender around the genital region. He hadnt been aware of it till now. To tell the truth he was a wee bit sore; a wee bit sore.

The cold water now quite soothing.

Yes and it
was
adultery. A fiancée was as good as a wife any day of the week so who was he kidding there was just no way out of it in that direction as far as the morals went.

Plus vanity. That is what it was, vanity. Otherwise they would now be married, a married couple.

But she had refused the first proposal and he was not giving her a second chance, arrogant vain bastard that he was. So conceited. So damn conceited. But it was her own fault. If she hadnt
fancied the idea then it was nothing to do with him. He had tried to persuade her but she was resolute. So how could it be him to blame? It couldnt. It wasnt his fault at all, if he had proposed
and she had deposed, deponed, said no,

Yes it was. It was. Of course it was. You have to be honest in this life and not fool yourself and here was one occasion he was not about to: it was him; he was to blame, for the transgression
in question. Pride. Plus now another three of them, transgressions, another three transgressions oh Lord three more of them, transgressions. Sex and murder

and what was the third?

blasphemy for heaven’s sake imagine forgetting that which some would say was the worst most grievous charge of all. Certainly ministers of the church would say so. Mind you, they were
biased; making out blasphemy was the worst was just an unsubtle way of asserting how important they were themselves. It put them a cut above lawyers for instance because look at the judge they had
to intercede with: the good God Himself! Then they would shove adultery next in line because of the taboos and how it affected so many more people than murder. Quantity is what counts. No matter
the business you’re in. The more souls you save the better. And far fewer people get affected by murder in comparison to the vast multitudes who get directly affected by sex, including most
especially themselves, the clergy.

But there’s no time to think of that though even worse if it had been priests and the involvement was with the Roman Catholics, and he had been one of them, a Roman Catholic. But no time
to think of that either. And look at that the purplish red patch on the right testicle there a purplish red patch; that was odd. What was that about the purple red patch on the right testicle?
Unless he had been scratching, but he hadnt been scratching, not that he could remember, not like this, to have had this effect. My God. It wasnt so good. Probably it had just kept rubbing against
Jeanette’s thigh. Was that it? Jeanette’s thigh. Rubbing against Jeanette’s thigh, soft upper. If that was it. It was so

But she had fancied him, it wasnt the other way about; so dont go blaming him, it wasnt his fault; if you’re going to blame somebody blame her. Okay he had looked, but who wouldnt? It was
her made the actual move, the first actual move. He shouldnt have allowed it though, his fiancée’s sister. How come she had done it; there must have been a feud, they must have had a
fight. Oh God he didnt feel good he just didnt feel good he needed to sit down quickly, quickly. He was just a bit dizzy. Just feeling a bit dizzy. Black dots in front of the eyes, plus whitish, a
whitish

If he hadnt reached the chair he would have fainted, he would have fallen down. Probably it was a castigation, a punishment, a retribution, a righteous chastisethment. He had been bad and now he
was getting made to suffer. Murder, adultery and blasphemy. Plus of course the pride of vanity. The vanity had been first and then

what was the time what was the time! Deborah had left her house she had left her house. She had been away seeing her parents today. She was now getting the train. She was at the station and
getting the train. Her parents lived nearby a railway station, so it was good and convenient. The train let her off in the city centre and then she got a bus from behind St Enoch’s subway
station straight to his place. Who in heaven’s name was St Enoch? Where had he come from? Was he even a man! She would be here in half an hour. Unless she was late oh please God make her late
if she was just late for a little bit, to let him think straight and get his mind on things and how he was to handle what he would say to her because he had never been what you would call a good
teller of tales, teller of lies, of fibs, i.e. never any good at it, at telling them, so he needed out of selling, out of the selling racket all together, he was no good at it, he wasnt, it wasnt
his forte; he would be much better at training others, if he could just get onto that training course. He would be good at it. He would be good. He would try so bloody hard. Plus his memory was
fine and it was a memory you needed.

The A4 folders spread out on the table. All the mumbo jumbo. Because frankly this is what it was, a load of mumbo jumbo, and high time somebody informed Head Office of the fact. He should
actually just burn it all and run away. He had no chance of passing tomorrow with flying colours. He didnt, he just didnt have any chance. He was doomed to lead a life of terrible distaste, a guy
for whom life will never ever be a time for fun, trying to survive on the road and failing failing failing thus back on the broo and having to face up to the people down at the DSS office, how they
would just ignore him and humiliate him all day long because here he was seeking handouts from a decent Government agency like them. Why had he thought so badly of them! They were just doing a
bloody job same as him if he was doing it, he would just be doing a job, it wasnt his bloody fault

Oh God, he just wasnt any good at it it was all his own fault, how in the name of heaven had he left college why had he been so bloody damn daft and absolutely stupid and damn stupid naive
that’s what he was oh God, he just wasnt any good at it, he wasnt –

I’m not. I am not any bloody good at it. Please help me. I am having to face up to those who hate me. They dont mean to but they do. I do not blame them because they sin, because they sin
against me. Please to help me overcome, amen.

He wasnt any good at it. He would be better if he was doing something different. Or else out of it altogether. It was best he resigned in advance. If only he could have made better use of his
education and stuck it all out instead of leaving when he had, if he had stuck it through to the bitter end. But even if he had gone in to the Post Office bank like his dad had advised him to do:
and so strongly. That was his experience talking. If he had just listened to him, but he hadnt, he just hadnt bloody listened because he had wanted bloody out, because he had hated the place and he
just couldnt get his heart in it he just couldnt like it at all, what he was doing there, what they were asking him to do and all that stupid damn studying for no reason, it was all just bloody
nonsense and difficult and even if it had been difficult and had a purpose but it didnt, it was just for nothing, graphs and statistical analysis, and nobody ever talking to you, it was like they
all knew each other from years ago, except him, he was a sore thumb, he was a sore thumb, or else he would have done it properly, he would have stuck in and just managed it, he would have
concentrated hard, hard.

How come he had not bloody done it when he had the chance! He was just a damn fool. He had always been a damn fool. His dad knew it, he knew it; you could tell by the way he looked. And probably
mum secretly agreed although she made excuses for him. And Deborah knew it as well, she did, it was bloody obvious, he was just a damn bloody fool. She would maybe forgive him his trespass if he
told her truthfully, if he explained it, all he had to do was explain it and then she would see because it was her sister, her own sister: it was her led him into the spider’s web and trapped
him and it was just male sexuality and her breasts and stockings and her thighs.

And there was just no possibility of her staying the night for heaven’s sake that just wasnt on. How could it be it couldnt be it just was beyond anything, even having washed.

The thing about Deborah of course her character trait it wasnt so much her temper but her stubbornness, how stubborn she was. It was just so bad; she had to learn to control it, she really did
– otherwise it would definitely cause her problems in life. Maybe that had something to do with Jeanette, the way Jeanette had acted with him, if she had maybe been upset by Deborah if they
had had a fall-out, and this was her taking revenge, seducing him, her sister’s fiancée, the future brother-in-law. But had it been on the cards you could say it had been on the cards.
Things had been

Well it was that selfsame very sister’s own fault. It was, it was her own damn fault, damn and bloody blast. Her own mother had even referred to that awful bloody stubbornness which was
surely something because normally they stick together mothers and daughters

At that moment a loud chap-chap at the door just about gave him a heart attack, he nearly toppled over, having returned to the sink, the trousers still at the ankles but he very quickly got
himself ready and glanced into the mirror to see he was okay, steadying himself, he closed his eyes for some moments because life, because

he wasnt good he just wasnt good, he wasnt, he felt so bloody, so damn

the chap-chap at the door again. He walked forwards and turned the handle. It was a small elderly old woman. It wasnt Deborah. His head craned over her. He felt like the Blackpool Tower and she
was a wee midget. She spoke to him; what she said was something like, I’m your neighbour up the stairs if you mind son myself and my husband moved in last week.

Pardon?

You gave us a wee hand up with our suitcases and our bags.

Yeh, yeh.

If you mind the housing put us in after we got decanted out our own place.

Aye aye, that’s right that’s right, yeh . . . He stared at her then stepped out and peered sideways. He said, Go on, the coast being clear. Go on, he said, yes, what is it?

The woman studied him, evidently thinking he was being uncalled-for abrupt and hostile to her.

Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. He didnt mean it at all. He really didnt. I’ve got a sore head just now, he told her, I’m studying for a test tomorrow for my work. It’s an in-house
thing and it’s really

He frowned at the woman: what the hell was he telling her for! He said: What is it you want, is it something you want?

My husband would like you to come up the stair a minute, he would like a word with you.

Pardon?

If you wouldnt mind. He’s just awful worried the now about something and he’ll no tell me . . . And onto her face appeared a kind of – what look? a something look, it would
have flummoxed you. He stared at her and then glanced away in case something bad happened. And she said, You know how he’s an invalid.

Aw aye, yeh, that’s right, an invalid – he’s got a walking stick or whatever it is one of these three-angled triangular frame things whatever you call them, sorry, I mean . . .
Is he wanting me to do something?

He’ll tell you himself.

Yeh but missis it’s just I’m so busy the now, I’m just so busy, I’ve got all this, God, stuff I’m studying and having to learn, to memorise, for the morrow morning,
first thing . . . And he was about to fling back the door and show her but no, no, she was the last person he wanted to see inside his room, the last person, somebody like her, unspotted,
untainted, such a fresh old lady with her invalid husband who never had had a bad thought in her entire life, who had never ever periodically once upon a time ever felt or saw, thought or spoke an
evil word, deed or action please the Lord.

The woman nodded but she took him by the elbow and he was powerless to refuse because how do you know it might well have been a chastisethment, something like that he was suffering and had to
endure as a penance: but then he frowned at her a moment later and tried to pull himself clear because she could be a malevolent demon or something it seems stupid but who knows who knows the way
things were and how life was turning against him, old-age pensioners plus her being a woman and maybe the wrath of a female because of what had just so lately taken place – he glanced down
the stairs. I’m waiting for my fiancée, he said. He shrugged and smiled for a moment; We’re getting married, I’m just having to pass this wee test first, for my promotion,
and then after that we’ll be putting the mortgage down for a house, a flat, a wee room and kitchen or something, a place of our own . . . He grinned at her.

You’ll just be a minute, she said. Honestly. It’s because you see my husband gets agitated sometimes, he gets things on his mind and they’ll no let him go. She then made a
brandishing motion with her right hand as if an indication of it, of how the things went inside her husband’s mind: He’s a worrier. He never used to be. Telling you son he was aye about
the most relaxed man you could meet, but no now. Us being stuck in this lodging house just makes it worse.

Yeh . . . He stared at his arm as she held it, leading him across the landing and up the stairs to the room directly above his own and therefore likely to have very similar walls and incisions;
she held the door open for him to enter. The odour of something like ancient bodies filled the doorway. It wasnt a vile stench although he breathed in and out through his mouth to avoid it. The
invalid husband was waiting. He had his three-angled contraption there which he was leaning on from the inside; he wore a dark-brown serge suit with outsize lapels and quite smartish-looking
although it was creased as if he had been sitting in a certain way for too long, maybe like he had fallen asleep, dozed off, his bad leg resting maybe up on a stool, and further when you looked at
the suit you could see it was greasy, shiny.

Here he is, said the woman.

What’s your name young fellow? asked the invalid.

My name’s eh . . . He paused. He was wondering why he should be giving his name to a complete stranger. He couldnt remember helping him up the blasted stair last week with no blasted
suitcases either – neither him nor his damn wife, this old woman and her quasi-humble politeness. Edward Pritchard, he said, emphasising the two ards as he used to do many years ago when he
was in primary school, about eight years of age or something and thought such a remarkable poetic feature just had to be a personal and secret message from Jesus setting him apart from his fellows,
it was pathetic, pathetic – as if he had any reason to be famous, because all he was cut out for was what he was about to receive for his sins, sent out on the road as a working sales for the
rest of his days, whenever he could bloody get a damn job and lump it, just bloody lump it, he was never going to be anything special, nothing, he wasnt going to amount to anything really at all,
these silly stupid dreams, none of it was worth a damn, because he had ruined it all, his entire life, and that was that, he was finished, it was over, he was never going to make it at all, you
would be as well laughing at the very idea, because he was a malcontent who committed transgressions in the name of the Lord and was therefore doomed.